Chapter 13 #2
His chest tightened. She couldn’t know how personal her description felt to him. The lump in his throat made it difficult for him to respond, so he offered an affirming grunt.
“I feel like that sometimes,” she said. “That everything that’s happened in the past five years—Bram, magic, the not-wedding,
being here with you—it’s all changed me, my form, but I’m still me. The apple doesn’t choose the bloom but bears up under its influence. Ooh, those sunflowers are so pretty this time of day.
They’re my favorite flower.”
He knew.
When he first arrived, the farm held little charm or whimsy. Marigold’s voice played in his head, suggesting a different paint
color here, flowers there. To pay her tribute, the obvious choice would’ve been marigolds. But she disliked them immensely,
considered their primary purpose to keep pests away. Their pungent scent filled Thornwick’s hedgerow maze. No, this happy
sunflower patch waving in the breeze suited his true love better.
“We all go through periods of change,” he said. “But it’s true we’re largely the same at our core.”
“In alchemy, the transformation reveals, rather than destroys, an object’s essential nature.” She tapped the head of a sunflower
as they passed. “The experiments are designed to burn away the dross and bring out the truest form of a thing.”
Beyond the neat pumpkin patches lay the cottage, its cozy presence a beacon through the stormy haze of his emotions. Was that
true for him? Had the curse worked like alchemy and turned him into his truest form?
He chose his words carefully. “So, in your experiments, you believe the element on the other side is what it was meant to
be all along?”
“Theoretically,” she said. “But either I am a terrible alchemist or the science is a sham. I never once turned lead into gold. I believe matter can be transformed—the apples to cider, for example. But the cider is still the apple’s essence.”
The cider is still the apple’s essence. Perfectly stated, and if he wouldn’t have to explain why, he’d pick her up and twirl her in circles. Cider was a metaphor
for what the curse had done to him—changed him into something new, but his essence was the same.
Bram was the apple; Jask was the cider.
Barnaby’s muted rooster call heralded their return home.
Around the back of the house, in the courtyard, Bram set the picking bag on the trestle table. “I’ll get the press if you
sort the apples—firmer ones for baking, softer ones for cider.”
As he wrestled the press, buckets, trough, and keeve into place, Marigold divided the fruit. She took greater care than he
would, but she’d always been more particular. From the cottage, he grabbed two chopping knives, then joined her at the table
to help wipe the apples clean of debris.
“Is it okay if they’re bruised?” she asked.
“Perfectly fine.” He handed her a knife. “They’ll sweeten the cider. The cider apples don’t need to be chopped neatly. A rough
crush is better for the pressing.”
Between them, they made short work of the apples. Her knife skills had improved dramatically these last few days. Her color,
too. Days spent working out of doors had transformed her pallor into a rosy glow. With her lip tucked between her teeth, she
was beautiful in her concentration.
Her nose wrinkled. “Ew, ew, ew!”
Marigold pushed away an apple occupied by a wriggling worm.
“I’ll rescue you.” He hurled offending pieces into the chicken yard, then swept the mountain of chopped apples into the bucket. “Now, we give these a mash to help them to give up the juice faster. Grab one of those boards.” He gestured toward scrap from last season’s fence rail repairs.
“No wonder farmers are content.” She jabbed the board into the chopped apples. “You can take your frustration out on all your
chores.”
She wasn’t wrong.
When Crispin had first discarded him here, he’d been wound tight. Between a life as a hired sword and the curse, he’d spent
many of those first days shaking his fists at his fate. Eventually, he’d picked up a spade and hadn’t looked back. Working
the land, tapped into the seasons and currents . . . there was peace in it.
Marigold’s soul seemed more settled, too.
An apple chunk flew from her masher and hit him in the chest.
“Sorry.” Her laughter startled the chickens. “That one fought back unexpectedly.”
He grunted and flicked it back to the bucket. “These are ready for the press.”
From inside the bucket with the holes punched in the bottom, he withdrew a linen sack. With two quick shakes, the sack billowed
open, and he tucked it into the waiting bucket. “The linen keeps the mash separate from the cider. Dump the apples in here,”
he said. “Then we load it into the press.”
The sinews in her tanned forearms flexed as she upended the bucket. The destroyed apples fell into the lined one he held steady.
“It smells good,” she said, “but resembles vomit.”
“Can we not discuss vomit?” he asked.
“Do you have a queasy stomach?” she asked.
He fitted the linen-lined bucket into the press above the collection pan. “No. I just don’t like that word.”
His tusks scraped his top lip as he clamped his mouth shut. Bram also didn’t like that word. Plenty of people didn’t, but he must be more careful.
Her eyes flicked to him, and she tilted her head. “Duly noted. Any other words to avoid?”
“Oh, no, I’ll keep that to myself—thanks.” He placed the empty bucket below the drainage hole of the collection pan. “You
must think me a fool. I’ve spent enough time with Princess Marigold of Thornwick to know that you’ll pepper every conversation
with those words.”
“What?” She fluttered her eyelids and pressed her splayed fingers to her chest. “Me? I am all innocence.”
“You’re all mischief.” He turned the crank on the press.
“And you adore it,” she teased.
He did but could in no way admit it. Instead, he focused on turning the crank until the keeve filled with rich, amber cider.
Her eyes went wide and bright. “This is strangely satisfying.”
He reversed the crank to lift the press. “Grab the bucket of pulp and scoop it into Paloma’s trough. Be careful—the pulp is
moist. Really moist. The moistest pulp ever.”
Marigold clapped her hands over her ears. “I hate that word.”
With his back turned, he snort-laughed. He knew she hated moist. Along with slurp, squirt, crevice, and mucus. Perhaps he could find a way to work several of them into future conversations?
“I’ll take the keeve to the root cellar. In a few days, the barm should form, and in a few weeks, we’ll have your cider.”
“That long?” she asked. “I might be gone by then.”
His injured palm screamed as he clenched the keeve. “Might you?”
“Possibly?” she said. “I doubt Crispin will call off the wedding and will continue to pretend I’m ill to stave off suspicion. So, it all depends on how quickly Rowan arrives. You must be glad that you won’t have to put up with me much longer.”
With a flat voice, he said, “Very.”
With all the power his orc body could muster, he pushed himself toward the root cellar so he could take a knee in private.